Homeward Bound
by orangeturquoise
Summary: It was nothing short of a miracle that Tristan survived the battle with the Saxons. Now he has returned to Sarmatia, not even sure what he is looking for. Will he find it nevertheless and maybe something more along the way?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing from the movie, though Tristan's hawk would pretty much be the most awesome pet ever. OCs and storyline are mine. I'm open and happy to answer to all questions, advice and other kind of feedback. And now enjoy!_

_PS. explanations usually feature in the Author's Note (A/N) at the end of a chapter. _

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**Homeward Bound**

_Chapter 1: A Brother_

Tristan halted his horse on the top of a hill, drawing some deep, dismayed breaths and wiping the sweat from his forehead with one sleeve. Who would ever have thought he'd one day yearn for the constantly damp Britannic chill and the drizzle? Instead he now was riding through the wide open plains in the middle of a Sarmatian summer. He never would have expected to see the land of his birth again, yet here he was. Sure, he'd always bear the reminder of Cerdic's blows in the form of scars, but somehow he had survived the Saxon leader's slaughter, and that in itself was a miracle indeed. He had spent weeks mostly unconscious, a drifter on the thin border that separated this world from the next, and then months confined to rest and convalescence – in fact he still was not completely healed and it was not likely he ever would – but with considerable help of Merlin's cures and the adamant will of his fellow knights not to let him die he lived now and he was glad for it. Plus he had to admit it that he was no longer a young man with almost 36 summers on his back. Lancelot didn't have as much luck, being impaled by a crossbow bolt. Lightly he patted the little jar in his saddle bag that carried a part of his deceased brother-in-arms' ashes. He planned to scatter the ashes here in their homeland as soon as he found the right place.

Contemplating whether he should empty the sad last remains of his water supply now or wait a bit longer Tristan let his eyes wander over the landscape before him. The pastures were lush, but the green turning into yellow, dried out by the sun already. A small stream ran in gentle curves and a lonesome settlement sat by its shores. The dark, round little huts lay scattered in an irregular pattern to each other and a few small human figures moved between them. Children ran around playing, waves of their laughter carrying up to were Tristan sat mounted on his steed whenever the wind was right. Horses stood near the huts, lazily nibbling on the thick grass. The knight took his time taking it all in: his homeland, by no means a place where milk and honey flowed, but still it was where his roots were. Plus indeed a fully serviced Roman villa or similarly comfortable dwelling just did not suit him. His nature required a certain roughness in his environment. And that settlement, this was where he would spend the night before aimlessly wandering the land again, a manner in which he had spent the past few years. He had yet to find a place that could persuade him to stay longer than for a few days. What was he even searching for? Blurred childhood memories? An inaccurate truth? Did he hope to find himself or peace or joy or at least rest or whatever else could seem desirable? He couldn't tell, only that he'd know as soon as he found it. Shaking off a slight feeling of dizziness he rode off to the huts in the distance.

Sometime later the slender figure of a woman carrying a large basket walked down the now deserted path between the huts. Her frame was lean, steeled by year's worth of hard work. Her hair was long, of a certain golden shine not unlike Gawain's, and braided to keep it out of her face. She wore a simple, lightweight tunic and skirt of good, durable fabric that endured the harsh conditions their wearer faced every day. With a deep sigh she set down the heavy basket in front of a certain hut and stretched her back, meanwhile squinting into the light of the setting sun. A lone rider trotted towards her, against the vibrant gold and orange light so that she could hardly make out more than a silhouette. Deciding that the stranger didn't seem to be hostile she called out: "I greet you, traveller. You have timed your arrival well. A few days later and the people would have moved on."

He nodded lightly in acknowledgement of the nomadic lifestyle he also led himself. Letting his trained eyes regard the scene before him quickly he noticed that the basket the woman had been carrying contained vegetables. These had obviously only just been harvested, as crumps of earth still clung to them, so there had to be a sort of field nearby where he couldn't see it.

"All but for you it appears," Tristan began, the words of his native language rolling smoothly off his tongue again after the recent years of practice. "Or why would you keep up the hassle of maintaining a field if you were to give it up anyway?"

She grinned like she'd been let in on an inside joke. "A keen observer I see. Perhaps I just like vegetables." She teased as she wiped some sweat from her brow. Then her face fell, giving way for the exhaustion of a whole day to take its toll. "But no, my father is too old and sick to travel, so we stay here." The woman explained.

"And the others?" Tristan asked.

"Will return here next year. No worries traveller, we can fend for ourselves quite well." She shrugged it off. That moment a gravelly voice called out from inside the hut: "Yeshelte!"

"Yes father?"

A sturdy man appeared in the entryway, with hair and beard as grey as the fur of a wolf, his back bent from old age. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, though the knight couldn't discern what. His sharp dark eyes fell on Tristan.

"Who is that?"

"A traveller."

"That I can see for myself, daughter. I mean what is he doing here?" the old man grumbled. "Travelling, I suppose." His daughter retorted with considerable gall.

"Merely passing through." Tristan offered.

"You won't get far today, young man." The old man stated, suspiciously peering into the sky as if he expected a heavy storm to appear out of the blue. Tristan grimaced inwardly; of course from this man's point of view he was still rather young. Yeshelte in the meantime had sat down in front of the hut and ignited a fire.

"You'll need lodging for the night then." She pointed out. "Feel free to stay with us." At this she smiled up at him warmly, her opaque-coloured eyes glowing eerily in the light of the day's last sunrays.

"Should you really be so trusting of strangers?" Tristan inquired.

"We have nothing worth stealing, and we have no enemy but Rome." The old man interjected.

"Father!"

"Silent, daughter. These Romans, they had no right to take him away." He continued, suppressed pain evident by the strain in his voice.

"Father, please, he was also my brother, not only your son."

Tristan watched the exchange silently, a suspicion creeping up in the back of his mind. Well, at least he had found a place to sleep tonight. These people seemed sincere, if a little too eager for bickering, but at least they wouldn't slice his throat open while he was asleep, not that he carried objects of much value with him anyway, save for the weapons perhaps. His mind made up he dismounted his horse and freed it of saddle, baggage and reins, then sat down on the ground next to the fire, on which the woman had now set up a cauldron in order to prepare a dinner.

"Well, traveller," Yeshelte smirked while beginning to chop up her harvest, "Now you are here. The question remains where you came from before that."

"Britannia." He stated matter-of-factly whilst staring into the fire.

"You don't say. What would bring a _Rhoxolani_ like yourself so far away from home?" she inquired casually. Had he known this was going to turn into such a thorough interrogation he would probably have ridden on and made camp in the open plain. Too late for that know. On the other hand these people were kind and hospitable, shared what little they had with him, a stranger whom they had never even met, something they need not have, so it wouldn't hurt to share some of the inconsequential facts of his life.

"Rome." He answered clippedly, leaving them to figure out the rest by themselves. If his suspicion from earlier was anywhere near the truth they would know exactly what he meant. As if on cue the old man went into a nasty coughing fit, involuntarily diverting the attention from the plethora of emotions that crossed his daughter's face. She needed that sweet time to regain her composure, millions of thoughts rushing through her head, just as many questions she was dying to ask, yet felt unable to because she dreaded what the answers might be. If the stranger would even answer at all. To her he seemed haunted by dark spirits, forlorn and somewhat damaged inside. Dark hair fell deep into his face, covering the eyes from view and giving the impression as if he was hiding from something. The assiduously well-kept weapons spoke of a seasoned warrior, a fact supported by two simple words: Britannia, Rome. The only reason why one of their people were to go to that far away land behind the sea was recruitment for Roman auxiliary troops. Just like her dear brother had been destined to when they took him away close to twenty years ago. Yeshelte had always trusted upon that one hope that her brother would return after completing his service. Her whole life she had been waiting, diligently scanning the landscape every morning, midday and evening for the approaching figure of a lonesome rider. It became second nature to her in short time. Up until yet he hadn't returned. If anyone this traveller who had suffered the same fate could tell her what had become of her brother, considering he was willing to do so. Yet she didn't dare to ask. What if her brother didn't want to come back? Maybe he had built a life for himself in that foreign land, taken a wife, founded a family? Maybe he had forgotten about his parents and siblings, only two of whom had remained alive anyway? Maybe something different had happened to him? Something worse? Maybe, maybe. Too many unanswered questions and not enough courage to ask them. If her elderly father had come to the same conclusions as his daughter he didn't show it, simply took the steaming bowl she handed him like in trance and ate. The stranger seemed to enjoy the silence as well as the food. It was then that she realized even when she decided to address him she wouldn't know how. He hadn't introduced himself and neither had they properly.

"Well, traveller, you have already heard my daughter's name, so there's really no need in introducing her." the old man began as if the previous episode had never taken place. Yeshelte flinched at the sudden joviality her father displayed at her cost, but stayed silent in order not to provoke an outburst of his temper. It was bad for his weakened heart. He continued: "My name is Darian of the _Siraces_, though my late wife was of your tribe."

"Tristan." The knight solemnly replied after acknowledging the older man's words with a nod. Then he put down his empty dish and politely thanked Yeshelte, noticing that she had barely taken a bite of her own meal.

In yet another sudden change of mood Darian eyed his daughter sternly and ordered her to go to bed.

"I'm not a small child anymore, father, I'm a grown woman – a married woman too – you can't just send me away like a naughty child!" she protested heftily, her eyes ablaze as her temper flared up.

"Were, girl, you _were_ married. Now you live in your father's household again, you do as you are told, _child_."

"It's not even that..."

"It is quite late enough. Be gone. Now." Her father interrupted harshly. Why did he have to humiliate her so all of a sudden? Sure, he had always been a strong personality, dominant even, and she had inherited every last bit of that particular trait of character from him. What did he have to prove to the stranger? Heat rose in her cheeks and she felt tears of anger trying to run freely. She willed them back with all her might and took off, not into the hut, but further and behind the settlement where their horses peacefully enjoyed the last warmth of the day. Pouting, she flopped down next to her young steed and wished that stubborn old man the plague.

"Excuse her temper, sir." Darian said to Tristan.

"I don't think it was necessary to treat her like that." The knight pointed out in his usual matter-of-factly fashion.

"Ah, see good sir knight. I know my daughter very well and I know how to deal with her." Darian waved away the subtle criticism. "The trouble is mainly that you came here today. Yeshelte is my only remaining child, you know. I used to have another daughter and a son – no, two sons – but they're all gone." he began to reminisce. Tristan cringed inwardly, wondering why on earth this old man had decided to confide his life's story in him now. On the outside his expression remained impenetrable. "My other daughter died in childbirth and my younger son of a fever, the same that took his mother, but my firstborn; he was taken away by the Romans to fight for them in a remote place called Britannia. We haven't heard of him since, and honestly I doubt we ever will. He probably gave his life like so many others of our people, but Yeshelte and her brother were very close. She still believes he will return. Nothing can deter her from that conviction, neither marriage nor motherhood, and I'm afraid if she has to face the truth it will shatter her. And this is where you come into the picture, young man. Whichever twist of fate brought you here, you are likely the one person who can give us certainty of my son's fate. That is why I sent her away for now." As he ended Darian looked years older on top of his already ripe old age. Tristan acknowledged the man's story like he simply acknowledged everything that didn't pose a threat. Of course he also concluded that this was merely tactical evasion on Darian's part. His daughter seemed a smart enough girl to figure out exactly what he had just been told for herself. In fact one look at her face had told him she had all the facts put together correctly. She would find out what she wanted to know sooner or later, that much was certain. And of course he also knew what response was expected from him now, and he would do so. He owed it to these people for their hospitality. He owed it to them because they deserved the truth. This was the only remaining family of one of his former brothers-in-arms. Only, for all his keen eyes he just couldn't determine whose.

"What was his name?" he asked, his outer calm betraying the turmoil inside. _Say Gawain_, he prayed, _say Galahad or even Bors_. He could tell them so many good and joyful things about Bors and his huge family. His Vanora. His dozen of healthy, happy children.

"His name was..."

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_A/N: _

_Oh, I am so mean! Forgive me for this clumsy attempt at tying your precious attention to this story. Cliffhanger, no really. As soon as I come up with a better way of attention-grabbing I shall employ it at once. Now you'll have to read the next chapter as well. Completely undistinguished, I say and apologize. Still I do not give up hope for reviews. Constructive criticism is not only encouraged, I find it is a definite must, so don't be shy. _

_Furthermore: _

**Rhoxolani**_ & _**Sicares**_ are stated in the all-knowing Wikipedia as Sarmatian tribes. Among plenty of others of course. I just randomly selected these two because I liked the words best. For the sake of the story let's just say that they recognized Tristan's tribe because of his facial tattoos. I don't claim historical correctness, though I promise that I will try to make it as authentic and credible as possible, so there will be no impossibilities like a merry cup of tea. That only came to Britain after explorers/sailors/merchants brought it there from the Far East (China to precise), and that was way later. I think it's safe to say that the Ancient Romans had never heard of tea, so even though they pretty much owned most of the known world at the time the movie takes place they wouldn't have brought it anywhere. In fact tea wasn't imported into Britain at all until the 1660s, because the new queen brought the habit with her from her native country of Portugal. After that the beverage became enormously popular with the Brits however, and continues to do so to present day. _

_As for the names, I have no idea what a typical _Sarmatian name_ is or was, so I just resorted to making them up and try to make them at least look and sound exotic enough for the purpose. Btw, Darian is pronounced as it reads. _Yeshelte _is pronounced like ´yeah-shell-tay` with the emphasis on the middle syllable, though I suppose as long as you don't read it out aloud it doesn't really matter how you say it. _

_Also _apart from Tristan's survival_, which is kind of vital to the story, I'll stick to the _original storyline _concerning who of the knights lived and who didn't. So that means Dagonet and Lancelot sadly are gone, but luckily Gawain, Galahad and Bors get to live on and spread joy to the universe. Yet who of the five is the mysterious brother/son so eagerly awaited? I'm afraid that piece of information must serve as decoy to keep you reading at least until the next chapter. I in turn await your feedback. Until we meet again, then. Bye. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2: A Horse_

Out of spite Yeshelte had actually stayed with the horses until she was too tired to stand up and thus she awoke sometime close to daybreak with sore bones and clammy cold. Cursing her father and whatever had gotten into him she proceeded to their hut, involuntarily smiling a humourless smile as she brushed by the sleeping form of the knight who lay outside the entrance wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Even in his sleep she seemed to be fleeing from something. Gingerly she brushed aside a wayward strand of his hair. She frowned. Tristan's forehead felt a little bit warmer than it ought to be, though perhaps it only appeared that way because her hand was so cold.

Inside the hut she made sure to give her father's snoring form a dirty look to avenge last night's argument and then quickly snatched some soap, fresh clothes and a large cloth to dry herself with. She would use the early hour to take a much needed bath in the little stream that ran by the settlement. There would be no chance for that once people started getting up and she simply couldn't stand yesterday's dust and dirt grating her skin.

Tristan awoke to the faint sound of shuffling feet and the soft clinking of metal against wood. That would be the girl, preparing something for them to have for breakfast he presumed. Since she hadn't eaten the night before she ought to be starving by now. Slowly life returned to the settlement and the scout's trained ears picked up on the plentiful array of sounds that came from the other huts as their inhabitants rose from sleep. Already whatever Yeshelte was cooking up from scratch smelt mouth watering, then again Darian appeared still to be asleep. He would have to face her alone when she asked what had become of her brother. He cursed fate for leading him here. There was no doubt to it since last night. The old man had visibly died a little bit inside when he heard his most persistent fear confirmed. If the woman was as set on her brother's return as her father claimed how would she take the news? He really didn't fancy finding out, so he wouldn't provoke a situation when he had to tell her. Then again if she asked he would relay the truth, plain and simple. What a thought! He, a knight who had defied death, afraid of a woman's tears! What was she to him anyway? Just the link to both parts of his past: One that represented his fellow knights, brothers-in-arms in fate and in soul; the other was what they had all had to leave behind when Rome called to service, a ripped family like this one. Tristan's head began to hurt for no apparent reason. He let out a groan of the most utter unwillingness; a bad idea since it ensured him Yeshelte's undivided attention. Quickly she scurried to his side, though making sure to keep a proper distance, and asked worriedly: "Are you alright? You look very pale this morning." Her voice was calm and soothing. The old man had mentioned something the previous night, about marriage and motherhood; that his daughter had been married, but apparently wasn't anymore. The special emphasis on the past tense had struck him as slightly off even then. Was she a widow already at such a young age? How old might Yeshelte be anyway? No older than thirty, he guessed, though not a young girl anymore. To remember her brother that clearly from before he had left she would have been at least five or so years old back then. Put on top the time that had passed since then she could be in her mid- to later twenties now, which was still young. And even if her husband had died in a fight or from disease there was still at least one child she had had. Only up until now there was none that seemed to belong to her. He went on in his calculations. Any child of hers could not be much older than maybe ten or eleven years, and thus would cling to his mother's skirts and be showered with love and attention, he imagined from her kind and friendly demeanour. Unless Yeshelte had a son and Rome had taken him away to a faraway land. When Rome had called Tristan to service he had barely been thirteen, as had Lancelot, Gawain was twelve and Galahad had counted only ten summers when they first met. Somehow Tristan doubted that possibility though. His instincts told him that she had lost her family otherwise. They were most likely dead, he deduced. What a harsh and cruel fate for such a young and kind-hearted woman.

"You could have slept inside. It gets dreadfully cold at night." She remarked after returning to the fire and tending to the food. Indeed it had been, and still was quite chilly with a crisp breeze sweeping the bare land, not that he minded. Tristan had endured nastier climates in Britannia.

Darian was nowhere to be seen yet. If Yeshelte was ever going to ask him about her brother she wouldn't do it in her father's presence, yet she made no attempt though the uncertainty must be burning her up from the inside. Finally concluding that she wouldn't ask on her own accord Tristan made a decision. Swiftly he got up and searched his baggage for a certain item, then turned to face her. She needed to know, he saw it in her restless eyes, heard it in the carefully yet not fully concealed tremor in her voice, and felt it in his gut. Just get it over and done with, he thought, and then he would continue roaming the land; always searching, never successful in finding. Fixing his gaze on her busy hands he sat down opposite from her. Suddenly a lump formed in his throat. He had no idea how to begin. Clearing his throat made the woman look at him again with those mythical eyes.

"I knew your brother." Tristan stated and felt an invisible weight beginning to shift from his shoulders. Her expression defied any attempt of interpretation for too many conflicting emotions battled and none seemed to win.

"So I figured." She began slowly, clinging onto every word as if only actual intonation of the sounds could make the situation real and she could just shrug it off like a bad dream as long as she did not admit by actions or thoughts that it was really happening to her right here and now.

"Hope dies last they say, but die it must eventually, or so it seems." She mumbled absentmindedly, before concentrating on Tristan again.

"He fell some three years ago, in a battle against a Saxon army." Tristan stated. Keeping to plain facts seemed to be a good strategy.

"Lancelot." She breathed more than she said it. It was more a prayer than anything else. "He promised to return in the end."

Tristan kept quiet, as if not to disturb her sorrow that now showing all too clearly on her suddenly paled face, and held out the little makeshift urn that he had earlier retrieved from his saddle-bag and which contained half of Lancelot's ashes. It spoke of her strong spirit – of which she possessed more than her father assumed – that she managed to hold back the tears that were visibly building up in her eyes. Maybe Darian thought her many losses had broken her, yet it was probably that her fate had made her strong. She looked at the urn for a moment, needing the time to comprehend its meaning, then gingerly took it from his hands, her fingers grazing his ever so tenderly in the process.

"What a way to keep a promise." She stated bitterly and stroked the container, like she might have stroked her brother's cheek had he only returned in person. Still she did not allow the tears to flow. Instead she inhaled deeply and locked her gaze with Tristan's. It was almost palpable how much willpower it took her to pull herself together again and not let her grief get the better of her. Deep inside she had known and felt it all along, but it was quite like her brother to fulfill his promises to his little sister, even if the manner in which he had managed to do so was more than unorthodox.

"At least he has found peace." She concluded, taking solace in that notion. Tristan was about to say something, offer his condolences or words of comfort; just what good would it do? He knew from own experience that only time can heal wounds of this kind, and that no matter how much time passed a scar would remain on the soul.

"I do not need your pity," she declared softly, yet with firm defiance when she noticed his efforts, already a picture of perfect countenance again if it weren't for the moisture that glazed over her eyes, "but I could maybe use your help. How good are you with horses?"

Taken aback by the sudden change of topic he gave her a subtly quizzical look.

"One of our mares is due to have her first foal soon. I fear it will be sometime today and that it won't be an easy birth. I could use help with that." She explained while handing him a bowl filled with steaming food. They ate in silence mostly. It was only when other villagers passed by the hut to get water from the stream that they exchanged some friendly words with Yeshelte, asking mostly about her father's health and who the handsome yet silent stranger at her fireplace was. She answered every inquiry politely and without revealing too much of her inner turmoil. They saw the first families already packing up their belongings, readying themselves to leave.

Yeshelte went to wake her father as soon as the two of them had finished eating, then motioned for Tristan to follow her to where the horses stood. From his experience he could tell that it would indeed be a difficult birth for the young mare, but contrary to Yeshelte's first assumption they deduced that they would have time at least until tomorrow. He felt it was his duty to help the lithe, frail looking woman as much as he could with her hard daily set of tasks and chores, and she accepted after a little banter. They didn't exchange many words during the day, which Tristan was comfortable with, and didn't see much of Darian until the sun was beginning to set once more. The old man seemed oddly pleased that Tristan had decided to extend his stay. Yeshelte went to bed early this night and left the two men alone by the fire after dinner. It wasn't until she was cosily tucked away in her bed that she allowed the tears for her beloved brother Lancelot to run freely.

Tristan awoke the next morning from the feeling of small hands firmly tugging at his shirt. He groaned in annoyance and tried to shake them off in his half-slumber, yet the tugging persisted, now accompanied by a dulcet voice beckoning him with considerable urgency.

"It's starting." Yeshelte whispered, "The foal is coming now. I need your help."

Instantly he was wide awake. Not even bothering to shrug on a jacket or cloak or in fact anything that could shield him from the chilly morning air he followed Yeshelte to the horses. It was not even sunrise yet, but Mother Nature couldn't be bothered by such mundane facts of course. The mare lay panting on the damp grass, her eyes twisted in panic. Yeshelte tried to calm the horse down without much success while feeling for the foal in the womb.

"Not good." She assessed. "It's not situated the right way. If the birth takes too long it will suffocate."

The mare let out a panicky shrill screech as if she had understood that her baby might not survive.

"What can I do?" Tristan asked.

"Pray." Yeshelte answered, "Pray and try to calm her while I go back for some herbs."

She ran as swiftly as a horse herself and returned within a matter of moments carrying a little bag that contained not only some herbs and brews Tristan knew from Dagonet's explanations were used to calm down strained nerves and aid wounds healing but also a simple yet extremely sharp knife. There was not much they could do now except for waiting, but it was clear that the action might start to unravel any moment. Just before sunrise it seemed as if the mare had calmed down sufficiently. A little hoof was already beginning to show. Just after sunrise things had taken a turn for the worse and it became very likely that neither the mare nor her foal would make it. Yeshelte wiped the thin layer of sweat from her forehead and massaged her temples. Mentally she went through their options again and sighed in defeat. "I see no other way really. We will have to pull it out." She stated. Tristan silently assessed the scene. The mare had become apathetic now. It was safe to assume that she couldn't complete the birth with her own strength. The animal's state was critical. He nodded to show his approval of Yeshelte's plan of action. Losing one horse would be devastating, losing two would be nothing short of a catastrophe. Since Sarmatians have evolved as a nomadic people who worship horses the number of them a certain family owns constitutes to their standing within the clan, so apart from being an indispensable means of transportation a family without horses also has no esteem with their fellow clan members. Also, one could not travel the vast plains without them. It would be purely suicidal. And Lancelot's family only had two more horses, one of which was old and sick. Determinedly Tristan grabbed the foals little hooves along with the blonde woman by his side and together they pulled as hard as they could without doing more harm than good. It felt like hours but eventually both horses, new and old, were alive, well considering the circumstances and separated from each other, which was nothing short of a small miracle. Yeshelte patted the mare's head affectionately as the new mother regarded her foal. Relief evident in her eyes, the blonde woman turned her face towards Tristan and smiled so brightly as if the two of them were the only survivors of a long hard battle. `We made it!´ was conveyed by that expression, and `Thank you!´.

"You must have known Galahad." She said after tending to the horses silently for a while.

"I do, but how do you?"

"Why, he's my cousin, the eldest son of father's sister. I remember pushing him into the stream once. He was not too impressed."

"How did he deserve such rough treatment?"

"He pulled my hair, and my sister's too. Roughly. That's what." She explained with dry humour, reminiscing in her childhood memories. "You do such things when you're six and seven years old."

"I see." Tristan commented while trying to imagine a seven-year-old Galahad just having been thrown in the stream that now glinted in the morning light: soaking wet and looking like a drowned cat, scoffing, probably pouting, likely wearing an indignant look, maybe crossing his arms in defiance. The image was amusing. Why had Lancelot never alluded to that? It hadn't been like him to miss a chance for a well-placed put-down (always meant with good humour of course). No one would ever have let the pup live it down. Perhaps the dark knight had found he owed his blood relation a little bit of consideration. Their fate had been hard enough as it was. Perhaps he had wanted to treasure his dearest childhood memories alone. Often, especially when there was something to contemplate, Lancelot would take out his wolf's head pendant and eye it intently as if he was engrossed in mental conversation with whoever it was supposed to remind him of.

"So how did he fare?" Yeshelte's voice ripped him out of his ponderings. "Galahad I mean." She elaborated, noticing the slight look of confusion on his face.

"When I left he was alive and well and courting the blacksmith's daughter." Tristan replied, no emotion betraying his calm manner.

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_A/N:_

_Alright, the secret is out. Sorry! I mourn the noble Lancelot just as much as anyone. But hey, there's another relation thrown in for your pleasure, just 'cause I found Lancelot and Galahad looked enough alike to be related, with the mops of scraggly curls and all. Also, in the original Arthurian legend, Galahad is supposed to be Lancelot's son, so maybe that's what sparked that idea within me. _

_Also, I'm no veterinarian and have no idea about the intricacies of a horse's birth. Hope that part doesn't suck too badly. _

_As always, tell me what moves you. What you liked. What you disliked. What you found odd. It's all a means of procuring inspiration for me. _


End file.
